


All That Time Away

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's lungs aren't the only part of him that needs to recover, and despite the slight awkwardness of years spent apart Peter and El are the best people to help him feel better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Time Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pooh_collector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pooh_collector/gifts).



> This was written for [](http://pooh-collector.livejournal.com/profile)[**pooh_collector**](http://pooh-collector.livejournal.com/). It's a sequel to [Blown Straight Back to You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113009%22) and would make the most sense in the context of that story, but all you need to know is that post-anklet Neal traveled for a few years before returning to NYC in the wake of being dangerously ill while abroad.

Neal woke with a gasp, and his lungs instantly punished him for the assault. He curled over onto his side, almost falling off whatever narrow bed he was on, and coughed roughly. He pressed one hand against the pain in his ribs but nothing helped the sharp sting of air being forced through his tight lungs. His heart raced, he couldn’t breathe, and he was alone in the uncertain darkness. He tried to remember what he was supposed to do, tried to breathe, but the best he could do was wheeze in between coughs until suddenly somebody was touching him. There was one hand on his shoulder lifting him up to sit and one hand groping at his hip. Neal squirmed away, but then he felt the touch of plastic at his lips and the hand on his shoulder jostled him.

A firm voice said, “Breathe, Neal. Come on, use the inhaler.”

Neal understood, finally, and he opened his eyes to see Peter crouched in front of him. Neal’s eyes were watery from the force of his coughs, but he wanted to keep them open, wanted to see Peter because finally he wasn’t alone. The taste and burn of the medicine hit him with his next ragged inhale, and it opened up his lungs enough that he could reach up with one hand and hold the inhaler himself, timing the next dose to get more of it inside him. A minute later, Neal could breathe almost normally, though his chest ached inside and out, he slumped back into the couch cushions and saw Elizabeth hovering behind Peter, her face tight with fear.

“I’m okay,” Neal said, disappointed to hear that his voice was a pathetic rasp. “Really.”

Peter sat down next to Neal with a hand still on his shoulder. “I don’t know about that. You seem like you’re doing better now so I’m not going to push you into going to the ER—“

“Please, no.” The thought that he might have traveled so far just to trade a lonely hospital room in Norway for one in New York was awful, and Neal felt his hands shaking, his heart still racing. He knew it was partly from the inhaler and partly from the coughing fit and whatever nightmare he’d woken from, but the idea of going back to the hell of impersonal touches, confusion and pain hurt in a way that went beyond the physical. “No hospital.”

Peter frowned and looked at Neal for a moment before nodding. “For now, okay. But you need to check in with a doctor here, right? Do you have an appointment.”

“Not yet.”

“Then let me handle that in the morning.”

The idea of visiting a doctor’s office was something Neal could deal with much more easily, and he agreed, glad that he could give in to Peter without ending up somewhere he really didn’t want to be. “Okay, thank you.” El handed him a glass of water, and as he sipped at it he realized that Peter and El were both in their pajamas. “What time is it?”

“After eleven. You looked like you needed the sleep so I didn’t want to wake you to send you upstairs.”

Neal nodded and took another sip of water. “I’ll go up in a minute.”

“Take your time. I’m just going to finish getting the coffee set up for the morning.” Peter patted Neal’s shoulder before standing and walking back to the kitchen, but Neal wasn’t alone long before Elizabeth sat down in Peter’s place.

“Thank you for letting me stay. And for the water.”

“You’re more than welcome to both.” She reached out to put her hand on Neal’s face, and Neal was torn between pulling back and leaning into the soft strength of her fingers. “You don’t feel hot, that’s good.”

Neal did pull back then, and she let him go with only a small hint at a frown. “I’m not sick anymore, not really. My lungs are just taking a while to recover. Peter told you what happened?”

“That you almost died? Yes.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know, but it’s true. Right?”

Neal didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“I’m so glad you got better, and I’m glad you’re here. I missed you, but Peter—“ Elizabeth shook her head.

Neal had thought that Peter was glad to have him around again, but now he was unsure. “But Peter what?”

“Peter never stopped missing you. I don’t think work has ever been the same for him since you left.” She raised one eyebrow and looked at Neal steadily. “As complicated as things could be with you sometimes, I think that having you back here is a really good thing. So, you know, take care of yourself and let us take care of you a little because I don’t want to see what it would do to Peter if you don’t.”

Neal sighed, feeling an unexpected kind of guilt unfurl inside him. “I will. I’ll be okay.”

“Good.” El smiled and put a hand on his knee for just a second before standing up and smoothing down her robe. “Let’s get you settled in upstairs.”

Neal rose and followed her up the stairs. He was moving more slowly than he would have liked, and he had to pause to cough briefly, but it was good to reach the bed that would be his for the night. They had redecorated while Neal was gone, and he recognized some things that had been in their bedroom—a throw pillow, a framed print. Another frame caught his eye, and he recognized the sketch he had sent to Peter from Rome two years ago. While Neal was staring at the picture, he heard Elizabeth say something about towels and water, and he wished her goodnight.

Neal changed into his pajama pants and got under the covers, but despite the general exhaustion that pulled at his body he couldn’t relax. He’d spent only one night in his flat in Oslo between leaving the hospital and getting on the flight to New York, and he’d slept only because the drugs still in his system had given him no choice. Now, lying in bed, shifting in his attempts to get comfortable, reminded him of nothing so much as struggling for air alone in his flat or being in the hospital, freezing and burning, confused and despairing with a black void in the middle and tedious lonesome days at the end. The night passed restlessly, brief periods of sleep broken by coughing spells that he kept as quiet as possible to avoid waking his hosts.

When dawn came and Neal heard footsteps in the hallway and on the stairs, he put on a t-shirt and robe then washed up in the bathroom before following Peter down to the kitchen. Peter was a morning person as always, humming to himself as he made a cup of coffee, and he looked slightly startled but not truly surprised to see Neal standing there.

“Hey, good morning. How did you sleep?”

Neal shrugged. He still didn’t like lying to Peter.

Peter frowned. “Hmm.” He poured Neal a glass of orange juice and handed it over then stood there, just looking at Neal over the brim of his coffee mug. “Why don’t you go back up and try to get some more sleep? I’ll wake you up when breakfast is ready.”

“Don’t you have to work?”

“I have plenty of personal days, and I want to see if I can get you an appointment for today.”

Neal thought about arguing that it wasn’t that urgent, that he just needed time to recover, but the memory of what Elizabeth had said the night before made him acquiesce. It was true, too, that he was tired just from being up for ten minutes. The endless walking, carrying, standing and waiting inherent in traveling had worn him out more than he’d expected. “I’ll just go sit on the couch if you don’t mind, read yesterday’s paper maybe.”

“Sure, if that’s what you want.” Peter topped up Neal’s glass of juice, and Neal nodded his thanks before going to sit in the living room. He scanned through the paper, looking to see if anything interesting had happened in the world while he’d been out of commission. After a while, he heard the door open and close and looked up to see Peter headed his way with the new morning paper in hand. "I thought I'd look at the paper down here, if you don't mind, let El sleep in a little."

"Of course." Neal moved the folded pile of yesterday's paper from the other side of the sofa to make room for Peter to sit down. Neal found his eyes getting tired, missing the reading glasses he'd begun wearing in the last couple of years, but they were all the way upstairs so it was simpler to just close his eyes and listen to Peter rustle his paper. He didn't realize he had drifted off to sleep until he woke up with a crocheted blanket over him and a small pillow tucked between his head and the side of the couch. Peter was just where he'd been before.

"Morning," Peter said, and Neal looked over to catch Peter's gentle smirk.

"I guess I was still sleepy." Neal stretched and then coughed briefly.

"I think you like sleeping on this couch a lot more than the bed in the guest room, but that's okay. Are you hungry for breakfast?"

"I am, actually."

"Good. You have an appointment in two hours, but it's not far so we have plenty of time. El left a little while ago, but today's a short day for her so she might even beat us home."

"That sounds good."

Neal stood and followed Peter to the kitchen, and he sat on a stool drinking coffee while Peter made a ridiculously large omelet for the two of them to share as well as a pile of buttered toast. The omelet was better than Neal had been expecting, filled with just the right amount of cheese and vegetables. It brought out Neal's appetite better than anything had since he got first sick, more than a month ago now. They ate in relative silence, and Neal let himself focus on enjoying the food. He never would have thought that a simple breakfast made by Peter Burke would be the most appealing food in the world, but just then it was.

After the food was gone, Neal lingered in the kitchen to dry the dishes as Peter washed them. While Peter was scrubbing a pan, Neal wandered over to look out the back door, thinking of the news that Peter had sent him several months before. "It feels strange to be here with no Satchmo."

Peter stopped working and sighed. "I know. He was an old dog and it was time, but I still come home and expect to hear him running to the door." Peter looked down, his throat working as he swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, I'm glad you did. I think of him all the time."

Peter went back to doing the dishes, and soon they were done. Neal went upstairs to shower and get dressed, and he was nearly dozing on the couch again when Peter came to collect him for the trip to the doctor. Neal had a copy of his medical records from Oslo, and one of the doctors had been kind enough to translate the discharge report into English for the benefit of whatever doctor Neal would find in New York.

The exam was less unpleasant than Neal had feared, and he walked out with prescriptions that would work in American pharmacies for when he needed refills, instructions to rest and watch out for fevers, and a follow-up appointment for two weeks in the future. They stopped at the store for some groceries, and when they got home the first thing Neal noticed after Elizabeth sitting at the table working on her laptop was that the living room had changed in a few significant ways since he and Peter had left. The couch cushions were covered with bedding, and a large, stuffed triangular bolster was tucked against the arm on the far side of the couch. A low, small table was pulled up next to the bolster with the book and reading glasses Neal had left on the bedside table upstairs as well as a bottle of water and a humidifier, which was already puffing out steam.

"Peter?"

Peter put a hand on Neal's shoulder and steered him over to the side of the couch. "I asked El to do this. You're welcome to use the room upstairs, but I thought that you wouldn't want to be up there alone for as much rest as you need right now."

Neal closed his eyes. It was humiliating, to be so easily read, but at the same time it felt safe to be so clearly understood.

"And sleeping a little more upright and with the humidifier should help with the coughing."

"You didn't have to do this."

"I know. We wanted to." Peter squeezed Neal's shoulder then let go. "You want to try it out for a while? I'll wake you up for lunch in an hour or two."

Neal slipped out of his shoes and jacket and climbed in between the sheets on the sofa. He sighed in relief as he reclined back against the soft comfort of the bolster and pulled the blanket up to his chest. The humid air was easier to breathe, and as Neal closed his eyes he listened to the comforting mumble of Peter and El talking in the other room.

He wasn't alone. He was going to be okay. Neal's body needed time to recover from the illness, but something else had been damaged inside him as well, something immaterial but vital. As he lay there with warm sunlight filtering in through his eyelids and familiar voices nearby, Neal felt like that was mending already. The only cure he'd really needed was _home_.


End file.
